Monthly Archives: October 2013

I noticed that WordPress is like a daily newspaper. The old stories/news are quickly forgotten. I wrote this one in 2009 (four years younger ?) so here it is again, something for fright night. I added a photo of my chief feline Nera (now did I alter this or not?)

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If bloggers had their own Halloween and could go from blog to blog collecting “treats,” what would your blog hand out?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us TREAT.

Somewhere in a country called Switzerland there was a supermarket chain. Their turnover was lagging behind the competitors, they needed new ideas. During the summer they were successful with their ice cream, bar-b-q items, plants for the garden. The days were drawing in, the evenings were darker and the temperatures were sinking. Something had to be done to revive the buying power of the customers.

In a public relations office in the main building, Fridolin Schweizer had a brain wave:the evening before he had been watching the film Halloween with his family on the television. “That was it, our business needs Halloween”. He was sure this was the solution. The Swiss people had been starved of tricks and treats and things that scream In the night. It was time to awake the Swiss from their autumn lethargy and the sales of Halloween sweets, ornaments and plastic pumpkins would be the hit of the year. Fridolin Schweizer’s brain was overflowing with ideas. He could see the happy smiling children persuading their parents to buy, buy, buy. Visions of chocolate witches, orange sugar pumpkins, liquorice broomsticks were arriving.

The departments in the largest branches would be decorated with nylon cobwebs hanging in the corners, there would be costumes for Halloween parties. Skeletons, vampire teeth, pointed hats for witches and perhaps even severed fingers dripping blood and hands as props. Switzerland would become the most frightening country of Europe. It would be taken over by the Halloween fever.

Fridolin Schweizer convinced the management that this would be the rescue of the declining turnover in Autumn and so it came to pass that various orders were sent to buy the necessary articles for the shops in countries with such names as Hong Kong and China.

Unfortunately for the Swiss, Halloween was something strange, another import from the big country over the pond. The Swiss had their All saints Day in the catholic areas when the cemeteries were visited. Wreaths and flowers were placed on the graves in remembrance of the departed. It was far from the Swiss citizen’s mind to celebrate such an occasion. Of course the younger generation always like the idea of an excuse for a party. It was fun, but Halloween was not the event of the year.

Fridolin Schweizer had visions of children dressed up as Jack the Ripper, Michael Myers, Dracula, Freddy Krueger knocking on doors, ringing the bells of unsuspecting neighbours and threatening with tricks or treats. Unfortunately the Swiss neighbours had no idea what was going on and a hoard of young children dressed up as horror figures were not their idea of fun and there were no boxes of treats to be had. Tricks were dealt with in a negative sense, some neighbours threatening with police action and telling the children they should be ashamed of themselves.

The supermarket chain sold all the Halloween props at half price during the month of November. Those remaining at the end of November were to be bought at a quarter of the original price and Fridolin Schweizer was transferred to the warehouse.

Is this fact or fiction? A little fact, and some fiction. A few years ago there was an effort to introduce Halloween to Switzerland. The shops were selling candies, skeleton costumes, witche’s hats. There were even a few small groups of children (accompanied by their parents) on a trick and treat excursion, but no-one had any tricks or treats at home. The attempt failed and today Halloween is just something they celebrate over the pond.

This evening I will not be disturbed by any knocks at the door and might watch a horror film on the television. Tomorrow is a holiday in the catholic Kantons of Switzerland for All Souls Day. The cemeteries are full of visitors placing candles or Autumn wreaths on the graves of the departed.

You ask what treat I would leave if anyone would call. Actually my apple tree was very fruitful this year and I have a whole basket of apples, so if anyone calls (are you hearing me daily prompters) then there will be an Angloswiss apple for each of you.

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Tell us about your first day at something — your first day of school, first day of work, first day living on your own, first day blogging, first day as a parent, whatever.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us BEGINNING.

Remember I am now a golden oldie and this all happed approximately sixty-three years ago

My first school, the photo taken on a trip to London a few years ago. It has not changed very much outside. It was originally a so-called infant’s school catering for children from 4-7 years of age, the first experience of education in the brain. It was a mixed school, boys and girls together. The school has been transformed over the years and is now for boys only. Actually it is the only school still standing from my childhood. The other schools I visited have been deleted to make room for something bigger and better, but no longer schools: more high rise blocks of flats. New schools are to be found in other places.

So there I was, ready to go, be educated and mix with the others. Mum was also ready to go. She gave me a good face scrub in the morning just to make sure I was nice and shiny when I arrived at the school. She accompanied me on my first day, and accompanied me on my second as well. I think she actually walked with me through the complete first year until I told her I now knew the way. It was a five minute walk from home, but you never know. I could have been hit by a car, held for ransom (we actually had no money), or got lost. Mum was not alone, there was a complete army of mums bringing and fetching their children from school. I suppose it was a dangerous neighbourhood, although I never really noticed it. Jack the Ripper had left at least eighty years before.

I remember entering the class on my first morning and being shown to my place. We were all new (all had shiny faces) and it was quiet. Probably we were nervous, although I think the mums were more nervous. Then it happened, it was time for mum to go (at last). I had no problem, I was free and could embark on the adventure. One girl I remember very well, she was not happy. What did she do? She screamed, grasped her mother by her skirt and pulled her back. She was desperate, hysterical. The mother also became hysterical and the teacher did her best to calm the situation. I suppose it was fun for me really: a complete distraction to the nervosity of the first day at school. Eventually the mother left her tearstained daughter, who was still moaning, but she seemed to calm herself eventually.

Funny thing was I remember this heap of hysteria quite well. We became schoolfriends until our schoolways parted. She was a very thin girl, practically no flesh on the bones. The next time I saw her we must have been about 17 years old. It was from a distance in the local market and she was about six months pregnant, so it seemed she had overcome her childhood anxieties.

Now we were on our own. I do not remember what happened next, I do know it was not the age for writing in books and each of us were given a small blackboard and chalk, that was the way things were done at that time.

We soon had our first playground break. We were confronted with a crate filled with small bottles of milk, and each of us were invited to take one. Milk was free to school children. It was a remainder of the olden days when children suffered with rickets, bone weakness. Milk was good for you and so the schools supplied it, making sure you actually drank your bottle of milk. My first problem: I hated milk, especially the sort that had a think chunk of milk cream on the top. I managed to tip it away or give it to a milk addict in the class. A couple of times I actually had to drink this disgusting liquid, although my stomach refused to accept it (it was all psychological I suppose). I do not remember exactly the outcome of this force feeding, but the problem followed me through school life until I went to high school.

Mum picked me up and took me home for dinner (lunch was not invented in those days) and brought me again to school in the afternoon. And so school life continued. We were all products of the year 1946 meaning the baby boom. Imagine thousands of soldiers returning from a woman-starved wartime army. They did their best to replenish the population. We were on average around 40-50 children per class.

This was the first day of many, I even made it to high school. It is a strange coincidence. I have a school photo on a “friends reunited” site on the computer. I almost forgot it was there, but today I received a notification from one of the boys in the class who had discovered the photo talking of some of the others in the photo. Must look him up on facebook.

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This was not an easy task. At the risk of breaking a leg by falling from a ladder to reach the top of the book case, I found it: one of the few rare pieces of my grandmother’s legacy. I do not even think it is so rare. When I examined Internet I found hundreds of various sizes and forms in memory of the Coronation of George V and Queen Mary of Great Britain. The things I do for Creative Challenge.

So who were this George and Mary? George was the son of King Edward VII who also happened to be one of the many children of Queen Victoria, making them all quite full blooded members of the Royal Family. Queen Mary was less known. Actually she should have married George’s brother, but unfortunately the brother died before the wedding took place. So has luck would have it, George had to have a wife and what could be better than doing Mary a favour and letting her join the British Royal family (as second choice?). Mary’s full name was Mary von Teck (a German?). No problem, the complete Royal Family were desecended from the House of Hannover.

Luckily gran bought a coronation memorial jug and now I have it. Must remember to dust down the top shelves of the bookcase, one of those places I do not often visit.

“Yes, that’s it, See the dot in the middle – that’s me just passing through, so I thought I would say hi and what’s up.”

“You mean there is a …….”

“Now let’s not get enthusiastic.”

“But it is not every day that the sky talks to me, and I did not know that the sky talks.”

“I am talking, but sky is something else. I told you to concentrate on the dark bit in the middle.”

“OK, I am concentrating, but only see a dark patch surrounded by one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.”

“Well that is just a coincidence, all done by the weather conditions, light reflections and things that make you go “Wow” in the evening. So, why worry?”

“It’s all very well for you to ask, you are just floating past. I am here to stay and now I am really worrying about that dark patch in the sky. Are you from another planet, ready to conquer the world?”

“No, nothing like that and if I was I do not want your world wrapped up in pink ribbons as a gift. You make enough problems down there.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Of course I do. Wars, starvation, catastrophes, corrupt governments and you think you have a problem. What is your problem that cannot be solved or conquered?”

“I am …. No, you are right Mr. Dot in the sky, I do not have any problem in comparison to others in the world. I will survive, and the next time you float past, can you bring another sunset with you like the one I can see now.”

“Will do, if I happen to be in your piece of world again, although it might be another colour, the sky does what it wants and not what I want.”

And the dark patch moved on hoping that the wind would carry him to a place where he could weep a few tears to keep everything in balance. There were some places in the world where rain would be a blessing.

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Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us SEVEN.

So let’s talk about Seven. The photo shows the path to the part of the village where I live and in the background is the ever present first chain of the Jura Mountains. There are altogether seven chains, beginning at the northern edge of the middle land in Switzerland. If you climb the first chain you arrive in a valley and then appears the second chain and so on over seven mountain ridges until you arrive in the flat lands again. From my area you would be reach Basel if the Jura was not in between, which is also on the border to France and Germany, so imagine that language mixture which bring us to the subject of the blog.

Naturally, being an ignorant infidel, I had never heard of Khalil Gibran. Not wanting to be left out I had a quick look up. It seems he died somewhere in the middle of the 20th century, being born in the 19th so we never had the chance to meet. I had a glance through his works and discovered it is probably not my sort of thing, although I would not say that his books are not interesting. He seemed to have a few quotes in stock with sense behind them, but reducing language to seven words is rather extreme.

I noticed some of my blogging colleagues mention George Carlin. Basically I do not know this person so well although the name rings a bell. I discovered he is a comedian and even found seven valuable words to use, although more for using when angry, injured or annoyed, so-called swear words. I also have a few in my vocabulary, even in two languages: English and Swiss German. Believe me Swiss German have more than seven and some can be quite colourful.

I am now not going to bore you with my choice of seven words to replace the many others in our language, but I gave this problem a thought and decided to base my research on the process of elimination.

Who needs definite and indefinite articles, they are superfluous (so is that last word). The Russians never even have them in their language. Do we really need adjectives? They can become the words of insult, so let us cancel them. If you happen to be speaking or leaning one of those languages where you have case forms, then adjectives complicate everything. You have to conjugate them. There we can be thankful that the case forms in English have either disappeared or no longer play an important part. Now if you are speaking Latin (no wonder it is a dead language today), German or Russian, you will never get the hang of it. You can learn it, but when speaking time is lost by exploring which word to use in the correct version and I definitely dislike losing time when speaking, it is a waste of time and energy.

You want to speak arabic, then you have a problem. They even have sun and moon letters and slip the word for “and” (wa) in between each word in a list. Yes, they have very long lists – bread and butter and tea and fruit and jam and and and etc. We have now reduced the use of adjectives and articles. Prepositions can also be a means of complication. Some need the dative case, some the accusative and some another case belonging to some other language. One way or the other who needs them, so just eliminate them.

Nouns? Why not, just point at the object you mean. The object is not present? Then do not use it. Do we really want to talk about things we cannot see? Just save it for a time when we are there and can point to it.

We have verbs describing an action. Does it really interest anyone what you are doing, thinking or saying. Your actions are clear to be seen, so why use a verbal description?

Basically I think I have just eliminated language as such. There is not very much left, except for the swear words, so perhaps George Carlin is right.

Personally I think this Khalil whatshisname missed the point somewhere. Reduce my language to seven words? What a boring life. I love talking, having a conversation, I even talk to my cats when no-one else is here. There are times when alone that I have quite an exciting conversation with myself and seven words would never suffice. As far as understanding is concerned, if I want someone to understand I manage. Sometimes having a loud clear voice suits the purpose. And if I something annoys me, I drop a hammer on my foot or shut a finger in the door – then I can always revert to the George Carlin linguistic talents.

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6:00AM: the best hour of the day, or too close to your 3:00AM bedtime?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us DAWN.

I could now get all sloppy and poetical

I embrace the golden sun rays of the dawn
New beginning to a new day
Full of hopes
Reflections of rebirth at the local supermarket

No, this is not the idea. Looking at my photos, I do have a section labelled as sunrise where I found this specimen, but containing only approximately four photos. What on earth was I doing at the local supermarket at such an unearthly hour in the morning? Actually it was probably not so early, but in the depth of winter the sun rises later, if it rises at all. My sunset file contains at least twenty photos, yes I am a morning grouch (finding this word in an online dictionary).

WordPress you are playing with my internal clock today, a sequel to what happened this morning at 3 a.m. when we had to put our clocks back to 2 a.m. Is this the opposite of daylight saving time, known perhaps as daylight unsaving time? Who cares, I got one hour more sleep and that is OK with me. Who wants to wake and rise to see the dawn? I suppose some do, but that is not in my time table. I let the birds get on with it in summer, singing their pretty little heads off at the crack of dawn, letting us all know it is time to rise. Since being a golden oldie, this no longer impresses me, sometimes I hear them and sometimes I do not. I just make another turn in bed, am thankful for small mercies, and dream on until 7.30.

This morning I had a feeling of satisfaction, at last the hour that I lost in Spring had been found. I left my bed at 7.30 a.m. feeling refreshed for a good night’s sleep with the positive knowledge that it was actually 8 30 a.m., what could be better. I do not even think the birds accompanied this with a song; they were also catching up on their lost sleep, or perhaps waking everyone in the Southern half of the world.

I am also not a computer addict that I have to stay online until three in the morning, making sure I miss nothing. What happens in the cyber world through the dark hours is not my problem. Generally I am offline around 7.30 in the evening; sometimes perhaps 9.00 p.m. according to what brilliant idea I may have for a super prize suspicious blog. I am the proud possessor of an iPad, so if necessary I can always keep in touch whilst sitting in my comfortable armchair. Naturally I really only use my iPad in the evening for reading purposes (my Kindle app is on the iPad). So I usually hit the hay (I think I got that one from my friends across the pond) around 11.30. Yesterday I risked until midnight due to daylight unsaving.

The best hour of the day: definitely not the morning hours when I am occupied with housewife chores hobbies such as cleaning, shopping and cooking. Perhaps the hours after lunch when I have my golden oldie refreshment sleep. I noticed today that instead of receiving my daily prompt at 2.00 p.m. when I am usually taking my afternoon refreshment sleep, I now receive it at 1.00 p.m. This is no real problem, I can dream about what to write during my midday sleep. On the other hand I found at least 30-40 contributions already on the list when I arose, so mine will now be later.

WordPress you surprise me by thinking that we all get this daily prompt at six in the morning, when the first sun rays break over the cyber horizon. We live in a big world with a date line in between. We, in Europe, receive it at the beginning of the afternoon, and the Australians – they have to wait until the late evening hours.

And as the golden sun sinks slowly in the West, we dream of another dawn that will wake us all refreshed with its golden rays of new life (whilst I am still sleeping).

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Women’s March 2017

Originally a cockney from the East End of London. Arrived in Switzerland 46 years ago and due to meeting Mr. Swiss, I am still here. Mother of two sons, have been adopted by 3 cats. Worked 30 years as an export clerk for a Swiss machine tool company and am now retired. Like to go for walks with my camera and write blogs, flash fiction, poems to make life interesting. Speak fluent German/Swiss German, French, Italian and some Russian. Mother tongue: still cockney english.

Freshly Pressed

51 Shades of Blog

Being honest the title is based on a remark made on one of my blogs by a supporter.
"You always turn a topic inside out and on its head" were words also applied by a visitor to one of my blogs. I think she hit the nail on the head.

Prompts are there to act on, not just tell everyone what you had for lunch or your likes and dislikes. I trust that on my blog you find something spiced with humour. Mr. Swiss, my other half, has been known to say that not everyone always understands my humour (I do not always understand his).

Blogging is for me coupled with having fun. I do what I want to and not what I have to.

Disclaimer: Not reponsible for any spelling or grammatical mistakes. I do my best, but having two langugages revolving in my brain (yes, I have one), sometimes the result is more bi- than unilingual.

To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!